A Case of Identity
by liveliveloud16
Summary: After thirteen years, someone cut out of Sherlock's life entirely has just come home: his daughter. With Annabeth's mental ability nearly equaling that of her father's, she quickly adapts to the fast-paced, crime-solving lifestyle of Sherlock and John. Through this new player, however, Moriarty sees a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to end the game with Sherlock, once and for all.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

I sit staring at my homework. _I actually do __not__ care about any of this. _Why is it so important to know why the earth goes round the sun? Or who invaded this country at that time? Do I really have to know this? It's all in the past. It all doesn't matter. It's all so boring.

My phone rings. I jump up from my seat to grab it, glad to have some excuse to stop working. _Mum_, the caller ID reads. I answer.

"Hello?"

"Annabeth, when I get home, we have something very important to discuss."  
_If it's about school, I don't care,_ I want to say. "About what, mum?" I ask, in a tone I hope doesn't sound too bored.

I hear her take a deep breath. "It's about your father."

I'm instantly shocked out of my bored stupor. My…father? "What? Why are you choosing to address this now? He left thirteen bloody years ago!"

"It's just…it's come to my attention recently that you don't know who he is, and –"

I cut her off. "Yeah, mum, I _don't_ know who he is, or where he is, or what he does, or…or anything! You've never told me anything!" I'm livid, and so confused. We've had a happy life living without him…why would she bring him up now?

She replies quietly, her tone begging for me to understand. "I-I know, Annabeth, I know. And that's my fault. When I get home, we'll talk about him for as long as you like."

_But I can't wait for you to get home! _I almost scream. Instead I take a deep breath – _calm yourself Annabeth _– and say, "Can you at least tell me what his name is?"

Maybe I've heard of him. Maybe I _know_ him, and I've never known it was him…now my mind is racing.

"…Sherlock Holmes."

Hearing her voice brings me back to the world, but I am so caught up in my thoughts that I don't hear her. "What?"

"His name is Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes."

"And he's living here, in London?"

"Yes, Annabeth, he is. Look, I really want to wait until I get home before I tell you any-"

I hear a scream, a crash…then the dial tone.

My blood runs cold. "Mum? Mum?! Oh, no."

I run into the hospital, up to the nurse's desk, pleading, screaming for my mum, for her to be all right, for her to be alive.

"All right miss, calm down, calm down. What's your mother's name?"  
"She's been in an accident…please! Please, I have to see her...I-I have to see her right now, okay?"

"Yes miss, we know, but we need a _name._"

A name? Names weren't important right now!

"Her name, miss?" the nurse insists again.

"Elizabeth! Her name is Elizabeth Meade! Now will you take me to her?" I feel like I should be crying, but the tears don't come.

"Elizabeth Meade? She arrived about 10 minutes ago. She's been in a brutal automobile accident. Are you sure you want to-"

"Of course I do!" I yell. The nurse looks as if I've just reached out and struck her. I mutter an apology. "I just need to see her. I can handle this, it's my mum. I have to see her." My voice cracks, but still no tears.

The nurse eyes me warily. "She's in the ICU. Follow me," she says curtly. I do as I'm told. _Why can't I cry?_

"Right in here," says the nurse, gesturing toward a room at the end of the hall. "Now, I'm warning you, she's suffered from major wounds, miss, I –"

I rush past her, not caring about anything else except - "Mum!" I exclaim. She's hooked up to numerous beeping machines, surrounded by tubes and wires. I take in her current state. It's not good…not good at all. But I push down the despair that's slowly rising, and put on a brave front. "Mum, just breathe." I focus on the rise and fall of her chest. "It'll all be –" 

"Annabeth," she says weakly. Oh, the nurse was right. She's hurt, she's so hurt. "Find…your father. Find Sherlock."

"Mum? Mum, you can't…die. Look, you'll be fine, see-" I grab a tissue from the bedside table, gently clean a little blood off her face. It doesn't do much good. "We'll just get you all tidied up, then you'll be…" I swallow hard. "You'll be good to go." I try to smile, but it hurts.

"Look at you. Always so brave. I've always loved that about you." She looks me in the eyes. "Annabeth, find…Sherlock. Tell him I sent you. He'll know what to do. He always knew what to do…" Her eyes close. The once-steady rise and fall of her chest ceases. I hear the flat-line of the once-consistent beeping machines.

_No. NO. _This can't be happening. I can't be alone. _No_. I shake my head. I'm not alone, she's sleeping, and she's fine. "Mum? Mum!" But the reality comes crashing down on me like the weight of the world. She's gone. I grab her hand, I grab her shoulders, I'm shaking her, I'm sobbing, and I'm falling apart, screaming her name…


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"NO!" I scream, and bolt upright in bed, out of that horrid nightmare. I gasp for air, and I scream for my mum. But when she doesn't come, the reality of the situation hits me like a blow to the stomach. "MUM! I need you...I need you so much," I sob into my blanket.

It's been three weeks since she's died. I've kept a low profile, trying to do the things around the house that need doing…oh, but it's all so hard without her. I've been avoiding school as best I can. The weekly phone call from the secretary's desk has started to resound throughout the empty house every other day, disturbing the eerie silence, but I let them go unanswered. _Never cared about school when Mum was here_, I think numbly. _Why start caring now?_ But I know I can't keep this up much longer. As I lay back down again, her voice enters my mind.

'_Find your father, Annabeth_,' I hear her tell me. Her dying wish echoes in my ears. '_Find Sherlock Holmes.'_

"Sherlock Holmes," I say aloud. "Sherlock Holmes." I draw out every syllable. It feels strange rolling off my tongue, like it doesn't quite belong there. It's the weirdest name I've ever heard in my life. _Why him? Why is he my father? Why did he leave us?_ Why, why, WHY…so many questions; questions that deserve answers.

I look at the clock on my nightstand. 2:30 a.m. This is the third time this week I've been awakened by that horrid recurring memory. I get up and pull out my laptop, too awake and too upset to fall asleep again anyway. The search bar blinks at me expectantly. '_Sherlock Holmes_,' I type_._ Up pops a website: _The Science of Deduction. _A text box underneath the title says, _"The World's Only Consulting Detective." _

_Detective? Now that's interesting. _

My eyes move to the corner of the page, and settle on a profile picture. I nearly fall off the chair. His startlingly pale blue eyes – _mine_; his curly, unruly brown hair – _mine_; the smirk that says "I know more than you do" - _mine_. The only difference between us is my slightly darker skin tone, obviously inherited from my mother. Other than that, it's like looking in a mirror. _So this is Sherlock Holmes. This is my father._ It's unmistakable. And a little alarming.

Yet I am eager to find out all that I can about this man who, up until three weeks ago, hasn't been more than a faraway, slightly painful memory for me. I see the most recent post on the website: a link to the blog of a Dr. John Watson. The name doesn't ring a bell. I decide to check it out. As I read through the entries, I begin to pick up on something.

"_Sherlock has done it again! Yet another serial murderer locked up for good."_

"_It is beyond me how Sherlock manages to know almost everything about a person in one glance."_

"…_a gift that he uses for the good of others…"_

"_I believe in Sherlock Holmes!"_

Posts about mysteries solved, lives saved, and happy endings flood the screen. My dad, a detective! Suddenly, I'm filled with an overwhelming eagerness to meet this man. He must be absolutely wonderful. I scroll down to first entry, eager to know how all of this began.

"_Sherlock's gift of deduction is, simply put, a gift beyond all measure. When I first met him, he could tell I had served in Afghanistan, suffered from PTSD, had received my phone as a gift from my sister, and was looking for a flatmate, all in a matter of seconds. Sherlock's sense of observation surpasses that of any ordinary man."_

I smile. Reading about him makes me feel closer to him already. I scroll back towards the top of the page, lost in my own thoughts. _I can't wait to meet him! He'll be so excited to see me! He can take me on his adventures; we can solve crimes together…_

I almost keep scrolling when I see an entry with a bolded red title. I stop to look at it:

**TOO SMART FOR HIS OWN GOOD**

A frown shatters my smile. That doesn't look positive.

"_Sherlock may have the amazing ability to solve a crime when everyone else is clueless, but he sure likes to let people know it. He's smarter than everyone he meets, and he's absolutely not ashamed to let them know it. Sherlock may know a lot, but he doesn't know this: how to practice __**humility.**__"_

Okay. Guess Dad and John had a row before this little entry was posted. I scroll up a little more.

"_His massive intellect has gotten him __**into **__as many life-threatening situations as it has gotten him __**out**__ of them."_

"_Sherlock: letting me know that he's smarter than me on a daily basis."_

"…_still no humility…"_

"_He never takes a break."_

"_Sherlock should be crowned the king of mockery."_

I'm beginning to doubt myself. _What if I'm too…ignorant for him?_ By the look of his reactions to, well, normal people, my thoughts of an open-armed welcome disintegrate. If the daughter of a genius isn't a genius…I don't know what to think. I've never done well on my standardized tests or really any schooling for that matter. _It's just not interesting enough!_ I think stubbornly. Anyhow, maybe the grades, or lack thereof, won't faze him.

Yes, I can tell if someone's right or left handed by looking at their watch…but I can't tell if a man has been out of the country by looking in his wallet.

_I can do __this__…but I can't do __that__._ The voices in my head go back and forth, back and forth, making my head throb. I put my head in my hands, defeated. There goes the brilliant idea of having a happy new life with my father. _So I guess that's it then. What do I do now, mum? I have nothing else to do, _I think despairingly. _Nowhere else to – wait!_ I jerk my head up in realization. Sherlock's website! Frantically, I type in the URL.

I begin reading.

I begin learning.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It's been three days since I've started reading Sherlock's website - three days since something inside my head clicked. _Is this what it's like inside __his__ head? _I wonder. I feel like a different person. Some highly-tuned sense of observation has been in lying dormant in my mind all along - it just needed to be fully awakened. Reading Sherlock's observations and methods to figuring people out fully revived it. Sherlock writes about himself as if no one else could even begin to understand what he does, obviously still lacking the humility. Yet, when I put my mind to it, it's not all too difficult. It's easy to figure out what someone had for lunch, or to tell how many small, yippy dogs a person owns, or to notice if someone has worn the same shirt twice in a week.

Walking down the streets of London is much different now: it's living in a different world. I can't go two metres without observing other people and their little quirks. But I'm not complaining: I actually find it…kind of fun. It keeps my overactive mind, a mind that's already begun to overflow with knowledge, a mind sorting out who's going where and who's doing what, busy. I don't know why other people don't put these methods into practice. It's so…_easy._

I start to make the walk back towards my flat. Now I understand why Sherlock is constantly calling himself greater than everyone else: the way he thinks is far above that of an average man. No ordinary person could process so much at one time…and still remain humble about it. No one else understands the way he thinks - the way wethink. I smile at the thought. _I have something I can use to relate to him. He can't turn me away._

I walk up the stairs and enter the flat, pull out my laptop and open a tab to his website. There's his address, right at the top of the page:

_221B Baker Street – If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only._

_Well,_ I think. _No better time to go – no._ I contradict myself mid-thought. I'll give it a few more days. I'll give myself a little more practice.

_I __want__ this to work. I __want__ to be welcomed. I __want_ – a smile breaks through my thoughts. _I want to be like my father._ _And, _I think, _I'm almost there._

Today's the day.

Nerves have been accumulating slowly in the pit of my stomach like a snowball rolling downhill. I just have to keep telling myself _I'm doing this for Mum, I'm doing this for Mum._ I have to get these nerves under control though - when I meet him, I want to appear like him: cool, collected, smart. I've made it my goal to throw him off a little bit, which I'm certain will happen, considering the fact that he hasn't seen me in 13 years.

With this thought in mind, I exit my flat, hoping the next time I return will be to retrieve my belongings.

Hailing a cab, I take in the world around me. I take in the details of the city, and the people who are too ignorant to notice them.

"Where to, miss?"

The cabbie's voice brings me out of my head. "221B Baker Street," I say. _So now it's final. _

It seems I've only been in the cab five seconds when the cabbie pulls up to the curb. "Here you are, miss."

I pay what I owe and walk towards a large black door with a gold _221B _screwed on. Underneath this is a large, gold doorknocker hanging slightly to the side. I reach for it, and hear a man's voice right behind me.

"Oh, you can just go right up, no need to knock."

I turn quickly, taken by surprise at the voice behind me. He's definitely not Sherlock. I see a shorter man (I'm taller than him by quite a few inches) with dirty blonde hair, and a tired, yet kind, expression, standing before me. _John Watson._ I recognize his face from the profile picture on his blog. When he sees my face, he inhales rather sharply. I notice a look of confusion in his eyes, but it disappears quickly with a minute shake of his head. _He thought he recognized me._

He looks like he's about to say something, then decides against it. He's still eyeing me like he's seen me before, but can't remember where from.

_Oh, you've seen my face before,_ I think. _You just haven't seen me._

I begin to observe him: stands tall, proud; clean-cut; dressed nicely, but casually - then I remember the bio on his blog.

"How long did you serve in the military, Mr. Watson?" I ask, hoping I seem sure of myself.

The look of shock on his face almost draws a laugh out of the serious composure I'm maintaining. His face tells me that he knows who I am, who I sound like, but I know he has never met me before in his life. All he can manage is:

"It's…it's Dr. Watson."

"Oh, my mistake. Very sorry Doctor. So how long did you serve in the military, as a doctor?" I talk quickly, putting on a persona that I hope mirrors Sherlock's.

He eyes me warily. Oh, this is so much fun. "Until I got shot. And you would be?"

I turn towards the door, open it, and walk inside. "Someone with a rather important task, Dr. Watson," I tell him over my shoulder. I gesture towards the stairs. "Just up here?"

He follows me inside, obviously not sure as to what's just happened. "Yes, it's just up these stairs. Now, you're a…a client, I presume?"

"Hoping to be, Dr. Watson, hoping t-"

A gunshot cuts me off: **BAM**. Then another, and another, and another: **BAM, BAM, BAM. **

I frantically turn around and face Dr. Watson. "What is goi-" But he rushes past me up the stairs with his fingers in his ears before I can say any more.

"What the HELL are you doing?" He yells in exasperation.

I creep up the stairs, staying behind the door.

"Bored," I hear a deep voice mutter. It can only be Sherlock.

"What?"

"Bored!" Sherlock bellows this time. I see Dr. Watson back up and put his fingers in his ears again. I do the same.

**Bam. **"Bored!" **Bam.** "Bored." **Bam.** I take my fingers out of my ears. _Maybe I should just leave. _But curiosity glues me to the spot.

I hear Dr. Watson say something Sherlock, but I can't make it out. I move closer still towards the entrance to the flat.

"Well, if you'd stop shooting the bloody wall and listen to me-"

"Why?"

"Because we have a client…if you haven't scared her away, that is."

"Oh, lovely! Do come in, dear client." I can hear the sarcasm dripping from every word. "And please, don't be boring."

Dr. Watson comes toward the door. "Oh, good, you're still here. You can, uh, come in. He's unarmed now."

_All right. _The moment I've been waiting for. _Take a deep breath, compose yourself. _Andin I go.

I walk in and see a man sitting cross-legged in a black armchair, a man matching the profile picture on the website: a long thin neck, narrow face with prominent cheekbones, startlingly blue eyes, all topped off with a mess of curly brown hair. Plucking the stings on a violin, he's obviously not caring about his new client. _At least, not yet_.

"I'm looking for the great Sherlock Holmes," I say, matching his sarcasm.

"And who's asking?" he inquires. I see him smile, I can hear it in his voice. _She's spirited, this one, _he must be thinking. But still he pays attention to the tuning of his instrument.

I pause, and with a slight smile say, "His daughter."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The sound of the violin stops short. John abruptly looks up from the notepad he's just started writing on. The flat falls into a silence so suppressing I find it hard to breathe. I look at each of them in turn, trying to hold down the desperation rising within my chest. _I __need__ a response. Please. _John looks up from his notepad and turns towards me, giving me a look of pure disbelief. I look back to him, and see the disbelief fade to recognition, and then back to disbelief. His thought process comes to life before my eyes:

'_Now that can't possibly be true. This is all some stupid joke the kid is pulling on him, he'll be able to figure that one out real quick. But she does look like him…a lot like him. What if it's true? What if she really is…no, she's lying. That's all this is, a lie some stupid kid came up with.'_

Caught up in my thoughts (or more like John's thoughts), I don't notice Sherlock stand and walk towards me. As I turn in his direction I jump a little as I see those pale, analytical blue eyes staring coldly at me, scrutinizing everything they see. But I regain composure quickly and stare right back. I think I see a sudden interest in his eyes, but it's gone before I can be sure.

"I'm sorry, miss, but that just can't be true," I hear John say. "Sherlock doesn't…attract women." Sherlock looks at me for one more second and then turns his stare to John. John flushes with embarrassment, obviously not meaning to have said that aloud. "What I meant was…I really…" Exasperated, he nearly shouts. "He doesn't have a kid!"

Turning his eyes to mine once more, Sherlock says quietly, "John, we need more milk. Go."

"No we don't, I used some just-"

"Go, John."

John finally gets the hint. "Oh, right. It was, uh, going bad anyways."

The door closes. All of a sudden my shoulders are held in a vice-like grip and those hard blue eyes go soft and take me in from head to toe. Recognition and hope crumble the wall he works so hard to maintain. I'm working hard to keep my gaze indifferent, revealing nothing about the torrential wave of thoughts crashing through my head: _He's holding me, he's close to me…would it be wrong to hug him? My father, my one, true father!_

Sherlock's gaze softens immensely. "Annabeth?" he asks in a hopeful voice.

All I can do is try not to gape at him. "How'd you…how'd you…know m-my name?" The words don't come out right! The solid grasp I've kept on my emotions is loosening.

"Oh, it really is you!" He wraps me in his arms, holding me as if he'd never let go. Still, I stumble over my words as if I've never formed words before.

"How'd you…I don't-"

Pulling away, he holds me at arms' length and looks me in the face. "I'd know you anywhere. You are my daughter, after all." The ear-to-ear smile he wears throws me off a bit. "Come, sit. Kettle's just boiled." He extends an arm to John's armchair, still keeping one hand on my shoulder, not wanting to let go of the thing that he's missed all these years now that it's finally here.

It's strange to see him…care. But I soon let that thought go. He actually embraced me! He didn't laugh at me, didn't curse my name or tell me to get lost. I have what I came for: a father. Even as these reassuring thoughts run through my head, I still can't help but feel…unsure. "So you're…happy, to see me?" I venture.

His smile glows warmly. "Of course," he answers. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Suddenly, I remember the death of my mum. The memory comes rushing back and hits me like a train: she is why I was here. She spent her whole life raising me. This man left two years into it. Why would I come to him now? The anger grows rapidly.

"Because you just left me and mum!" I yell. The horrible memories of her death arise so quickly. "Obviously you weren't happy to see me thirteen years ago! Why would you do that if you cared about us? About me?" My voice is high-pitched with hysteria. "Why act like you care about me now, when you never did before?" My voice cracks. "Mum was the only one who ever cared…and now she's gone…" I begin to sob.

I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder, and I flinch away. But the hand comes again, stronger this time, and another one follows suit and grabs my other shoulder, and I am lifted off of the chair. Then I'm enveloped in an embrace that feels so comforting, so protective. My sobbing quiets to a sniffle.

"Annabeth, I am deeply sorry." I can hear Sherlock's voice rumbling through his chest. It has a soothing effect that comforts me down further. "I…when I left, I want you to know it had nothing at all to do with you. You were – you are – perfect. I'm never leaving. Never again."

I pull away from him and wipe the tears from my eyes. I don't know if I can forgive him, not completely. How do I know he won't desert me again, even if he's said otherwise? But when I see his face, there is not a hint of deceit. Before I even know what's happening, I say, "I forgive you." When these words come out of my mouth, I feel almost as surprised as he looks, but he recovers quickly and wraps me tightly in another hug.

I've pictured this moment a thousand times: his touch – one hand on the small of my back, the other at the base of my neck, holding me gently to his chest; his sound – the sound of his heart beating softly, keeping time with mine; the sheer entirety of who he is. I've imagined it all. But no dream, however vivid, could ever compare to the real thing.

Across the street from 221 B, a man stands in the window of a flat. "Interesting," he says, pulling a pair of expensive binoculars away from his eyes. "Very, very interesting." The man closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chin, stroking it absentmindedly. Quite suddenly, the nasally lyrics of "Stayin' Alive" begin to play, seemingly out of nowhere. The man's eyes snap open as he breaks out of his thoughtful state. He presses the button on his phone and holds it to his ear: "Sebastian, I was just thinking about you!" he gushes. "I believe this twosome has just become a threesome. You gotta admit that's sexier."

The voice on the other end of the line is low and muffled.

The man walks away from the window. "Oh, Sebastian, you naughty boy; I'm blushing. But Daddy is working right now, you know that. No, Seb, I'm talking about The Game."

The low, muffled voice utters a sound of realization.

"Yes, Sebastian, glad we're on the same page now." The man resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I believe you should deal another player in. I need everything you can get on Annabeth Meade."

The low, muffled voice says, "Will do, Jim."

"Excellent. Oh, and Seb? We've been through this a thousand times: you call me Moriarty when I'm working." And with that he hangs up the phone. Moriarty walks back toward the window, able to see the happy family still embracing, even without the help of the binoculars. "Oh, so sweet. Don't ya just wanna throw up?" he says with a cheerful smile to no one in particular. He steps a few paces away from the window.

"I hope you're ready for a game, Miss Annabeth. Both you and dear ol' Daddy Holmes will be put to the test - my test - and it will be oh-so-fun. There can only be one winner though. That's how all games work, right? And you'll want to win this game, yes you will! You'll both be playing for the ultimate prize-"

Moriarty pauses. Though there is no one else in the flat, he plays up the situation as if entertaining an audience. _Pause for effect_, he thinks. He walks back to the window and addresses the father and daughter: if they can hear him or not, he doesn't care.

"You'll both be playing for your lives!" he says optimistically. But," he says, shaking his head with an unexpectedly gloomy attitude, "I'm afraid only one of you will be making it out alive."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

I'm so tranquil in Sherlock's embrace that I don't hear the feet coming up the stairs. I'm not even aware of another person's presence in the room until I hear a quiet cough. I slowly lift my head from Sherlock's chest and see John standing in the doorway.

_Awkward_

_Unsure_

_Obviously didn't go and get milk_

These observations flash through my head in rapid succession. I can see the thought, _'Should I stay or should I go?' _run through his head. I step away from my father and extend a hand.

"Dr. Watson, I'm afraid I didn't properly introduce myself when we met at the door. My name is Annabeth Meade – I mean Holmes." _Oops._ I cringe internally. "Annabeth Holmes." _Gonna have to get used to saying that,_ I think to myself. _But I'm not complaining._

John looks at my hand as if it's a rabid animal, but the expression of unease quickly slides off of his face, replaced with one of unadulterated interest. He takes my hand and shakes it twice, and then steps back a pace. _Dutiful…like a soldier._ He smiles a small smile. I notice how his eyes smile too, mimicking their fellow facial feature. I smile back.

"Just John, just call me John," he says distractedly. "Now…" He looks to Sherlock, then to me, then back to Sherlock. "Forgive me if I'm a little confused by all of -" he gestures towards me and my father, "this. But, uh, Sherlock? I'd just love some enlightenment."

Sherlock looks at John and gestures toward a maroon armchair. "Sit."

John rolls his eyes, but submits to Sherlock's command, lowering himself heavily into the chair. Sherlock hops nimbly into his black leather chair just opposite John and sits cross-legged. I am slightly confused by this act of juvenescence. _He's a…professional, right?_ But I soon clear my head and focus on the scene playing out before me. Sherlock takes a deep breath and says, in all innocence, "John…Annabeth is my daughter."

John glowers at Sherlock. I can almost hear the thought, _I'm going to punch you in the bloody face, Sherlock Holmes, _as if it were just said aloud. It clangs loudly like a cymbal throughout the air, the sound reverberating off the walls of the flat. I can see John physically swallow the frustration like this is a mental exercise he practices daily. "Yes, Sherlock, believe it or not, I gathered that much," he says through clenched teeth. "What I'm trying to find out is where the HELL has she been all this time?!" John yells. The mental exercise has obviously failed to work.

I look down at my feet. I have no reason to feel guilty for something I had absolutely no control over, but I do. Something about making this man angry mentally wounds me. The question I've asked myself over and over again since my mother's death pops into my mind once again: _Why did I never care about being in my father's life?_ But I shake the thought away. _You're here now,_ I think. _You're here now and you are wanted._

Sherlock's voice jars me out of my thoughts. "She has been under the ever-loving and ever-watchful eye of her mother." _Oh no._ I think. _He doesn't know she's dead. _"Really John, you must - " Sherlock stops mid-sentence. "What?" he asks, obviously irritated.

I look over at John, and see an expression of the utmost incredulity. "I'm just having a hard time – a really hard time – understanding how you got a woman to fall in love with you, and then…and then had a kid!" John laughs disbelievingly, but the laughter soon dies away as it's met with an icy glare.

Sherlock offers no further explanation. "As I was saying," he says, with a final glare at John, "Elizabeth Meade, Annabeth's mother –"

"Sherlock!" I interrupt. "I-I have to tell you…my mum, she's –"

Sherlock cuts me off. "Annabeth, I know. After all, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

I am stunned. "What? You know she's…"

John cuts in. "You know, I don't know what she's done, so I'd love to find out!"

I look at John, and can't help but smile a little at his demeanor. _I promise we're not trying to leave you behind John._ "John, my mother was…killed in an automobile accident about a month ago. Before she died, she…she told me that Sherlock was my father. She told me to go and find him. So that's why I'm here. And…" I look at both of them in turn. "I was hoping I could, uh, stay, for a while."

John is the first to stand, and the first to speak. "Of course you can." He walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. "You can stay as long as you need to." Then he hugs me. A little shocked, I return the hug feebly at first, but the sincerity of John's gesture becomes unquestionable. I look at Sherlock and smile. Giving a thumbs-up, he returns the smile.

John pulls away and smiles at me. I smile back.

_I feel like I'm finally home. _

I hear a text alert ring through the flat. Sherlock pulls his phone out of his jacket, reads the screen, and says, "Well, this is all very touching, but Scotland Yard needs my skill yet again, shockingly. I guess Anderson's mental capability is just not enough for this case. Come on John."

He swiftly rises from his position on the armchair, grabs his jacket, and swings it on around his shoulders. Grabbing a blue scarf, he turns to John, who hasn't moved. "You are coming, aren't you?"

John puts a hand on my shoulder. "What about Annabeth? She would probably want someone to keep her company back here at the flat."

I'm about to interject with my own protests when Sherlock says, "What? She's coming with us, obviously."

"Sherlock, I really don't think that's a good idea. It could be dangerous, she's your on-"

"John, she's coming. That's final. If you're this worried about danger, which is odd because you have never been before, then you can stay here. Let's go, Annabeth."

I feel as if I could fly. _Yes! I get to go on a case with my father! I get to show him what I can do! _But I push down these feelings as I look at John and smile apologetically. "I don't think there's any sense in arguing with him. I haven't even been here an hour and I know that it'd just be a waste of breath. I'll be safe John." I give his arm a squeeze. "I'll see you later!" I call as I head out the door of the flat.

"Yes, goodbye John," Sherlock says, his hand on the doorknob. "While you're here, maybe you could clean up the kitchen? Also, I think there's a plant in here that needs watering or something." He begins to close the door.

"Wait, what?" I hear John ask. "I'm not staying, I'm coming wi-"

"Bye John!" Sherlock calls as he closes the door. "All right, Annabeth, let's go."

I nearly bound down the stairs I'm so full of excitement.

Sherlock's eyes fill with a light I haven't yet seen, but he proceeds with caution. "So, you're…excited?"

"Excited?!" I nearly yell as we walk out the front door. "It's almost as good as Christmas!"

Sherlock tries, and fails, to hide a smile as he hails a cab. "It is, isn't it?"

We get in the cab, and I try to stop bouncing up and down in my seat. _I can't wait to show you that I'm just like you._

Meanwhile, John stands in the middle of the flat, dumbstruck. "What just…what just happened?" But anger soon replaces the confusion as the memories from the scene with Annabeth replay in his head. "We don't even have plants!" He paces furiously back and forth across the room. "Why would he even think that he can just leave me behind?" John stops pacing and sighs. "I need some air," he says as he leaves the flat and walks away down the street.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

John wanders aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of London. Still troubled and confused by his hasty replacement, he pays no attention to the direction in which his feet carry him. _'Why?'_ became the primary question in John's mind.

'_Why couldn't I go? I'm his best friend._

_Oh, stop acting like a twelve-year-old! Sometimes you can't have 'em all._

_But I always go with him.'_

John's thoughts battled each other within his head.

In an effort to escape the warzone, it seemed John's feet had led him up the steps of St. Bart's. _'Well,'_ thought John. _'Molly would make excellent company in this situation.'_ John walked inside and went off in the direction of the morgue.

Molly was happily moving about amongst the corpses in the morgue, taking measurements, writing observations – doing what she loved. John wanted to ask her, "How have you always coped with Sherlock leaving you behind?" but then thought against it. _'Probably wouldn't be the best thing to say, John.'_ He just decided to go with a simple greeting.

"Hello Molly," he said, hoping he sounded less dejected than he was feeling.

Molly was not expecting to hear a voice in the morgue. How could she, when the people she spent the majority of her time with weren't necessarily the talking type? In surprise, she jumped, uttering a high-pitched squeak and nearly dropping her clipboard. As she turned around, the look of fear on her face faded to one of recognition as she registered that the person addressing her was John Watson, not an unusually talkative corpse.

"Oh, John! You know not to startle me like that!"

"Sorry, Molly…I'm sorry."

Molly heard something in John's voice, something she hadn't heard before.

"John, what's wrong?" Molly sighed. "What's Sherlock done?"

John was surprised at his friend's quick deduction. "What do you – how do y-"

"I know it's something he's done, John," Molly said, interrupting the stuttering. "I can just tell." She chuckled softly, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I would be one to know, right?"

There was an awkward lull in the conversation as neither friend knew what to say. But Molly soon found her voice again. "So! What did he do this time?"

Before he knew what was happening, John blurted out the happenings of the entire evening, from the arrival of Annabeth, the revealing of her true identity, the explanation-that-wasn't-really-an-explanation from Sherlock, and their abrupt departure – the departure that left John in their wake. The whole time, Molly listened attentively. But one question was burning, searing itself into her mind: _'Sherlock had a daughter?'_

John finished his recollection of the night's events. "I just needed to talk to someone, Molly. But I'm sorry – trust me when I say I know it's a lot to take in at once."

Though her question was still burning at the tip of her tongue, Molly knew that now was not the time - she had to be there for John.

"John, don't you think he wants to spend time with her? I mean, he hasn't seen her in God knows how long. He's probably just wanting to spend as much time as possible wither right now."

John, seeing the sense in what Molly was saying, nods his head in reluctant agreement.

"Also," Molly continued. "I don't think he could ever replace you, John. It may be hard to see sometimes, but…you really do mean the world to him," she said with a small smile.

A smile spread over John's face as well. "Same goes for you, Molls." He continued on through Molly's blushing. "Thank you, Molly. I needed someone else to help me see sense. I'll see you around."

John turned and headed out of the morgue. Seeing Molly had really helped raise his spirits. He had just been too upset to make sense of what was really going on. Chastising himself for his rash behavior, he didn't notice the man walking towards him until they collided.

Regaining his composure, John wasn't able to deflect the hands holding him down. "Sher – lock," he gasped. He felt the needle puncture his neck. Then he was falling, falling, falling into darkness.


End file.
